


the hollow m(a)n

by kehlee



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Case, Introspection, Kind of i guess., M/M, No Dialogue, Romance, also tw for slight violence, but like... nothing super extreme, no kissing tho, sorry I suck at tagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kehlee/pseuds/kehlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the BAU works a case in which tidbits of T.S. Eliot's 'The Hollow Men" poem are left at crime scenes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the hollow m(a)n

**\-- i. --**

_WE ARE THE HOLLOW MEN_  
_WE ARE THE STUFFED MEN_  
_LEANING TOGETHER_  
_HEADPIECES FILLED WITH STRAW_

The note left at the scene meant nothing to anybody. Reid was quick to announce the source-- T.S. Eliot. Morgan, too, was quick to point out the quote utilised “we”. Gideon did not seem to pay them any mind.

He crouched down, his figure stoutly outlined in the rays of mid-afternoon sun, not-so-astute lines not-completely-jarring. Not the way his personality could rub against the team’s skin like steel wool on a chalkboard. That’s worse than fingernails, Garcia may have remarked.

But they simply focused their eyes on the scene around them; simple enough, working a case in which the unknown subject would literally gut the victim. Nobody was so sure where the organs went, other than hopefully a freezer. The heat of Texas sun beat down upon them unforgivingly. Reid noticed the subtleties; Hotch would sweat in his suit, tugging his tight tie a little looser.

Hotch would always curve around Reid, never close enough to touch him, never close enough to look him in the eye (or anywhere else at all). Reid found it odd, the way his own doe eyes would dart back and forth between paperwork files and chestnut file cabinets to the mocha brown hair that fell so sweetly across the line of Hotch’s forehead.

He didn’t love him, but he knew he could.

**\-- ii. --**

The witness’s report was useful. A young woman, green eyes and that auburn red hair color that so few people these days naturally came by. She told a simple story: a man, white, in a gray-maybe-black-or-something coat, with a red cap. Gideon had profiled him this way: white male. Mid to late thirties. Wearing a dark coat but a bright hat. The kind that shades your face just right in darkness, the way that Hotchner did around Reid. The way he would keep his eyes down, force himself not to look, only even stealing glances when he knew nobody else would see. A night on the plane. From his office out the window. Never staring too hard.

The second note was found later that day, and Reid was able to recite the verse after the first words. Hotchner’s ears soaked in the sweet edge of his voice.

_THE EYES ARE NOT HERE_  
_THERE ARE NO EYES HERE_  
_IN THIS VALLEY OF DYING STARS_  
_IN THIS HOLLOW VALLEY_

Whenever Reid were to read poetry, it is the lip of a drop of honeysuckle in the springtime, and Hotchner would feel young again, like he’d sucked through the split end of the yellow flower and laughing. Maybe his sullen eyes would crinkle in a smile. Maybe not.

Now, the notes had meaning. Not only did th carcass miss its organs; The eyes had been gouged out too, roughly, Reid had suggested. Hotchner always listened to Reid’s dewdrop suggestions. Everything the kid said was miracle.

The unnamed subject was without a doubt quoting T.S. Elliot for a reason. Each man was dumped in the evening. Always a timed call to nine one one, a disposable cell phone programmed perfectly left in the hands of the victim. Can you call anybody a victim when everything human of them has been stolen and all that remains is thick, swollen skin?

Hotchner wondered what all would remain of him. Perhaps frown lines.

**\-- iii. --**

The hat was actually orange. Reid had kept some fantasy in mind, imagining him to look like Holden Caulfield in a red hunting cap, but this hat was bright orange. Actually for hunting. That didn’t fit in their profile.

Garcia told Morgan, between baby-girls and flirtations wasted, that he’d had a father who had died of a hunting accident. Likely his cap.

They were wrong about the age, too. He was only twenty-six, with dimples and blond hair. Still, that gray coat and bright orange cap. Gideon was always more right than wrong. His name was Gabriel Hart, and he lived alone. Gideon was right. He was short. Gideon was right. He killed again. Gideon was right. This time, an eight year old. That, Gideon was wrong about.

_HERE THE STONE IMAGES_  
_ARE RAISED, HERE THEY RECEIVE_  
_THE SUPPLICATION OF A DEAD MAN’S HAND_  
_UNDER THE TWINKLE OF A FADING STAR_

The call came in at dawn. The last star disappeared into the sky as they drove, sirens blaring, sun rising. Reid rode shotgun, next to Hotch, watching him, eyes jutting from windshield to the man’s jaw line. Wrinkles, too. Perhaps he was too old, perhaps Reid was too young. It was from afar anyway. He could love him if he had to.

**\-- iv. --**

They were unable to locate Gabriel Hart, and a sense of urgency rushed over the entire unit like a tidal wave growing and threatening to pull them under. It crashed atop Hotchner’s heart when he felt the sweet creamed coffee eyes watching him, and he was grateful he had an excuse. Eyes on the road. No need to stare anywhere else.

J.J. finally pointed out the lead they needed-- one of the lines of the poem. Something about a cactus land. Reid would have known, Hotchner thought to himself, admitting to nobody that he could think such a thing. He remembered a time when J.J. distinctly said something to him about Reid. How cases felt unsolvable without him.

It was true.

This car ride, he did not end up with Reid. It was Hotchner and J.J. and Prentiss, staring ahead at the empty road ahead of them, dusty and drab and beige all around. It reminded him of the way a halfway standing house looks, standing on its tiptoes and stretching for the blue sky. Even the horizon felt woefully beige.

The note had been found the day before:

 

_AT THE HOUR WHEN WE ARE_  
_TREMBLING WITH TENDERNESS_  
_LIPS THAT WOULD KISS_  
_FORM PRAYERS TO BROKEN STONE_

Hotchner’s newest mantra was this: Don’t think of him.

**\-- v. --**

He was too late.

Hotch would have corrected him: they were too late. It was true, it was not uniquely his fault, but when you cannot save somebody, it feels like being buried alive, but not under dirt or rocks. Under bodies.

Gabriel had shot himself. Not how he would have killed his victims. Perhaps he wished for peace. Perhaps he just did not know what he wanted. Perhaps... he was woefully alone in this world. Hotch would have told him not to read too much into it. Hotch would have told him in his raspy but caramelly voice that it was over. Hotch.

Hotch, who picked up the final note. Reid, who already knew what the words would be.

_this is the way the world ends_  
_this is the way the world ends_  
_this is the way the world ends_  
_not with a bang but a whimper._

Lowercase. Period. Linguistic end, linguistic whimper.

**\-- vi. --**

They sat beside each other on the plane. Reid fell asleep with his left knee touching Hotchner’s right. Reid fell asleep with petal shut eyes. Reid fell asleep like the leaves in fall. Gracefully, slowly, and bare. His sleep was raw and natural.

Before sleep, Reid had shared a few lines of poetry with him, by a Japanese author. Reid spoke with wordy intonation that smelt of cleansing sage and tasted like soft lavender vanilla.

_The world of dew_  
_is the world of dew._  
_And yet, and yet--_

**  
**  
  



End file.
